For the Best
by ephemereal
Summary: The mourners were dressed in conservative dark clothes, faces plastered with Hallmark sympathy card smiles which somehow seemed to say “perhaps this is for the best, you know.” One-shot.


Author's Note: So here's another little character fic for you guys since my novel is taking such an abominably long time to get started. It _is _still coming, I promise, and you'll probably be seeing it in the next couple of weeks. I've also decided that both "Another Kind of Intimacy" and this little ficlet are in the same universe with the novel…so keep that in mind; all of this stuff will have influence on that. This is set just after the rooftop scene in the movie. Also, I would like it to be known that this fic is not intended to have any slashy undertones. Read it how you will, but know that that is not my intention.

This ficlet is dedicated to ZeldaDragon, my fellow Matrix Angst Queen, for putting up with all of my ranting, bragging, and constant pleas for help. I'd never get anywhere without you.

I don't own anything relating to Constantine. Honestly, I don't know that I'd want to…he'd probably bring me bad luck.

And now, without much further ado (about nothing)…

* * *

For the Best

The funeral was short, formal, and all wrong. Angela could see it in his face just beneath the surface, smoldering silently in his dark eyes. The church was small and clean, devoid of any grandiose statues or large stained glass windows. It made no attempt at dazzling the small crowd of believers who frequented the pews like most churches did nowadays, but rather was of the primly insincere type, spiritual propaganda and words of hate concealed just beneath the fresh coat of paint on the walls, the tiny alter of flowers in front of the pulpit. The attendees were dressed in keeping with the general attitude of the church, in conservative dark clothes, faces plastered with Hallmark sympathy card smiles which somehow seemed to say "perhaps this is for the best, you know."

Angela walked in just as the service was beginning, taking a seat on the outside end of the very last pew and silently searching the crowd for the face she hoped to see in attendance. She found him almost immediately, sitting a couple of rows up and to her right, also on the end but toward the center aisle rather than the outside wall. He turned toward her as if sensing her presence, but his eyes seemed to stare straight through her. She shuddered and turned away. He looked worse than he had six days ago in the hydrotherapy room if that was at all possible. She sighed and tried to focus on the service as it began.

Everyone had very nice, very vague, obviously fabricated things to share about Chas. She found her mind wandering to Isabel, to the other funeral she'd attended that week, every bit as false and fabricated. By the time her head had the service was over and people were filing out of the church. Angela got to her feet and rushed after Constantine, catching up to him on the street in front of the church. He was lounging with one shoulder against a lamp post, looking absently at the crowd coming down the steps. He focused on her for the first time as she approached but didn't bother to straighten up.

"I never told you the service was today," he muttered by way of greeting.

"I know." She was unphased by his brusqueness. "I saw the notice in the paper this morning."

"And you came."

"You didn't want me to? I said I'd see you around."

He looked at her for a moment then, eyes searching her.

"Doesn't matter."

He turned and started to walk away. Angela trotted after him, not yet ready to give up.

"John!"

"What!"

She caught up to him and took him firmly by the shoulder. He turned abruptly, spinning to face her. His face was arranged in an expression of carefully crafted frustration, but his eyes were filled with something else, something strange and darkly raw.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her tone softening considerably.

"Fuck it," he muttered, then again, "doesn't matter."

"But it does," she insisted.

"To who?"

"To me."

"You're out of your fucking mind," he said, and kept walking.

"Fine," she growled, keeping pace with him. "I can take crazy. What I can't take is you lying because you have to play so damn tough all the time."

"God," he muttered, "you have got to be the stubbornest woman I've ever met. You sure you aren't a demon in disguise, sent here to plague me?"

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Not funny."

"_What _do you _want_?"

"Just talk to me."

He stared at her for a moment longer, a subtle softening working over his features. She realized he wasn't used to anyone caring, that the mere fact that she had come after him must seem an alien concept. It saddened her. After a long moment he shook his head and looked away, but she could see the change in his face.

"Fine." He looked hard up and down the street, then back at her. "But not here."

"All right," she agreed, "my apartment is a couple of blocks that way."

"Convenient."

They walked there in silence, barely acknowledging that the other was there. IT felt strange not being at work this time of day, thought Angela, looking at the deadlocked traffic. Xavier had given her no peace, insisting that she take a couple of weeks off to mourn her sister's death. In all honesty it would've been easier for her to be occupied, but she wasn't about to argue. Besides, it made it possible for her to…take care of business. She glanced at Constantine as they made their way up the steps, wondering if he was doubting what she'd done with the Spear, but if he was his face revealed no hint of it.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said.

"I know. I want to."

She reached out with her mind as they entered the apartment, trying to get a better sense of him. He let his guard down a little as they went inside, but he was still hard to read as always.

Angela took off her coat and hung it up, then went over to the couch and sat down, gesturing for him to follow. He shook his head and remained standing, hands thrust into the pockets of his trench coat, looking exceedingly awkward.

"Listen," she began, "I know what it's like to lose someone close. I know you can't be as okay as you're acting."

"How would you know? I'm an unfeeling bastard, Angela, you have no idea."

She rolled her eyes at him again, but all she felt was sympathy. Fear hung in the air all around him as tangible as ripples in water.

"John, I don't care what it is that you're feeling. But don't lie to me. I'm really not going to be fooled."

He looked at her, surprised, then sighed.

"I'm going to regret teaching you to use your sight, aren't I." It wasn't a question.

"Only if you regret having people care about you."

"Usually means I end up with another ghost on my heels."

Angela looked away at that, uncomfortable. She'd noticed the ghosts on occasion, not following him exactly, but showing up in his path, popping up in storefront windows or on billboards as he went by, their expressions silently pleading. She knew they must all be people who had been killed in his endeavors; it was a sobering thought, though she knew he would never intentionally betray one of his friends.

"Look, this isn't about me," she insisted, changing tactics. "This is supposed to be about you."

"What because you're not grieving?"

"That isn't the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"Damn it, John, I don't know!" She took a deep breath, surprised by the sudden wave of emotion. She wasn't entirely sure whether it had come from her own repressed emotions or from his. "I feel like…I can't do anything useful. Isabel was the only member of my family I ever felt close to, and I shut her out. Now it's too late to help her. At least let me feel like I can be here for you."

She half saw, half felt the effect of her words—something cracked just beneath the surface of his shield. He came over and sat beside her at last, close enough that their shoulders were nearly touching. Angela could feel waves of energy practically crackling off of him; she had the feeling that if she moved any closer she would get shocked. He leaned over until his lips were nearly touching her ear. She wasn't sure why he felt the need to act so secretive, to invade her personal space whenever he was saying something that mattered, but she wasn't about to protest if it meant he was finally willing to talk.

"It's not the same for me, Angela. I _have _to shut people out. Anyone I let in…" He shook his head. "I'm no better than a murderer. I kill without meaning to."

"You think I don't know what that's like? I'm the trigger-happy cop, remember?"

"But that's different," he insisted. "Much different. You kill to keep other people safe."

"So then what do you do? Kill for fun?" She was needling him and she knew it, but she wanted him to see how ridiculous he was being.

"_No. _But it's still…the bastards you kill deserve what they get. I…I always manage to fuck it up just enough that anyone helping me ends up dead too." He paused, ran a hand over his eyes. Angela put an arm across his shoulders and was surprised when he didn't brush her off or move away. "Beeman and Hennessy…they were the two who'd managed to get involved and come out okay. I was starting to think that maybe…" He trailed off and looked up, meeting her gaze for the first time.

Angela moved over and slipped her arm down to wrap around his waist. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, but she remained silent, afraid to break whatever spell was allowing him to talk so openly.

"I never should've let Chas get in over his head like that. The kid had no common sense…I kept him out for so many years. I think I knew…the minute I let him come in with me…" He trailed off again, and Angela caught his right hand in her left, lacing their fingers and squeezing gently. Constantine gave her an odd look but still didn't move away. "I just…couldn't do it by myself, and he was the only one left…that's the way it always happens."

"John…" She released his hand and reached up to touch his cheek. His skin was hot with emotion and he flinched visibly at the contact. She dropped her hand back to her side, not wanting to push too far. "Let me help you."

He leaned in closer still, no longer toward her ear but her lips. She shivered at the sensation of his breath on her face as he spoke.

"You have no idea how much I'd like to let you." He started to move away again, but she stopped him with a hand on the back of his neck.

"John…"

"I _can't_, Angela." His voice was adamant, desperate. "I can't lose anyone else."

She leaned in, tried to kiss him, had the feeling that if she could just manage that he would give in, but she was already too late. He pulled away violently, wrenched himself out of her grasp and stood up. Angela fell back against the couch, feeling as though she'd just been punched in the stomach.

"Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do," said Constantine. His voice had a cold, hard edge to it. "But I can't let you. I'm sorry."

"John—"

"Forget this ever happened."

"John, you know I can't do—"

"_Forget it." _

He said it so strongly she was afraid to protest.

"All right. Fine." She hated how weak her own voice sounded.

He went to the door and opened it, turned back only for a second.

"Listen, Angela…Maybe the fucking funeral theme was right. Maybe this is for the best."

"You know I'll never agree with that."

"Fuck it, then. I don't need you to. Never did."

Angela stared at him for a moment, too angry for words, then shook her head.

"Are you going or are you staying?"

That struck a chord in him, she could see it. Still, he made no move to admit to what he was feeling.

"Going. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, John. Close the door behind you."

Angela sighed and sat back against the couch, crossing her arms over her chest and hugging herself. She hadn't intended to upset him more, though she wasn't exactly sure what she _had _intended to do. Still, for him to have gotten that upset…She knew he wouldn't act like such a bastard if he didn't care at all. That was the funny thing about John Constantine; he was worse to those he liked than those that he hated.

"I'll be seeing you, John," she muttered to the closed door. "You can count on that."

Maybe by then he'd have had a chance to think things over more. Maybe by then he'd be calmer. Maybe after today he'd finally be able to admit to what he needed.

Angela sighed and went into the kitchen, picking up Duck on her way. Maybe it _was _for the best after all.

* * *

So I realize you're all wanting to kill me now. Do me a favor and review first so I can at least die happy. 


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